


Urchin

by truejaku (hereonourstreet)



Category: DRAMAtical Murder, DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Child Noiz, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Orphans, Poverty, Teen Aoba, Teen Koujaku, Teen Mizuki, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7780315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereonourstreet/pseuds/truejaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mizuki is a steadfast orphan, secretly hiding away with others in his position in an abandoned building in Midorijima. One day, a kid in fancy clothes show up on the street and won't stop following him around. He doesn't speak but he sure seems to adore Mizuki. Usually Mizuki doesn't take in rich kids, but it starts to become disturbingly clear to him that this child hasn't run away. He was abandoned. (There's no sex in this whatsoever - Noiz and Mizuki are children and teenagers respectively, along with Aoba and Koujaku. This focuses all on characters, not smut. I went kind of fast and loose with some headcanons; I think it all makes sense but there might be the tiniest bit of fudging with reality lol)</p><p>A commission for my friend Thunar! They were so excited to get it that I actually have never proofread it. Hopefully it's not too bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urchin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thunar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunar/gifts).



> btw: noiz is 6, aoba is 12, mizuki is 13, koujaku is 14

            Midorijima has never been an island of flash or wealth – well, Midorijima proper hasn’t, though Platinum Jail certain attracts its fair share of families with important names and rich businessmen.

            Mizuki has never been to Platinum Jail, but he’s also never had any interest in it.

            Platinum Jail is for the over privileged; the young adults who drink and party every night; the people who run the world; Toue, who is the only reason people like Mizuki and his friends end up without parents and without direction, not that Mizuki has the self-awareness at age twelve to know that. Not that everywhere outside of Platinum Jail is terrible – Aoba, one of Mizuki’s best friends, lives in a cozy house with his grandmother, who often feeds Mizuki and his other best friend Koujaku. It’s a nice neighborhood, but Mizuki hardly knows it. He lives in an abandoned building – not exactly rundown but not always heated or supplied with water, either – with Koujaku and the other orphans of Midorijima. He never meant to, but he sort of became the leader of them all, forming a tiny gang of street urchins with bad attitudes and dirty shoes.

            While Mizuki had simply never known his parents, Koujaku lost his, though Mizuki still isn’t entirely sure how. He used to live with his mother, who he still speaks very highly of, unlike his abusive father. Mizuki has no idea how he lost his mother, only that she’s dead now and Koujaku turns livid easily when it’s brought up, so Mizuki doesn’t bring it up. The first time they met, Mizuki was in awe of the other older boy’s tattoos that lined his entire right side, even up to his face. He’d never seen another kid with tattoos before. It was oddly inspiring. He asked if he could see them and Koujaku snapped at him, telling him his hair covered it for a reason and Mizuki frowned. Two months later, Koujaku finally showed him, and Mizuki touched his skin for the first time, finding comfort in a way he never had before.

            Koujaku introduced him to Aoba, who Mizuki resented at first. _“We don’t need friends with_ families,” he’d spat, seething at the size of Aoba’s house and the warm smell of doughnuts that wafted right to the front door. Koujaku told him to give him a chance, and when it became clear throughout dinner that Aoba was also missing his parents, Mizuki softened up. Aoba had a caretaker – he had food and running water and air conditioning – but that stuff, to Mizuki, was superficial. He could tell that Aoba missed his mom and dad, and the time he walked in on him sniffling in his room holding their picture changed his tune. Aoba was like them where it mattered – abandoned and alone, even if there was someone else in his house with him.

            And that someone else gave Mizuki a doughnut every time he came by, so he could give her a pass. Not to mention she was handy with a thermometer and had an extensive knowledge of drugs. When Mizuki or Koujaku fell ill, they rushed right over to Tae-san. She would diagnose them in no time and have them mended within the week. Mizuki made Koujaku promise not to tell her of their exact situation – though, as he’d learn when he got older, there’s no way to hide that from a mother and grandmother. She invited them to stay over often, but Mizuki wouldn’t stay more than two nights in a row before going back to the rest of the orphans. He was their improvised leader. He couldn’t abandon them like their parents had.

            The general rule was that anyone was allowed to stay a night or two, if they really needed to. Kids with families dropped by all the time for a night when their parents kicked them out or when going back home was too dangerous for them. Mizuki has a sort of roster of kids on the island and a finely honed sense of class, able to sniff out a faker a mile away. The upper class kids generally stayed out of their way – because they were scared, mostly – but sometimes the braver ones would come around and throw rocks or hurl bad insults at Mizuki and the rest of them. Usually Mizuki would roll his eyes – he always had more important things to worry about than rich kids – but now and then, he’d get into a fight.

            Tae-san usually had to patch him up, but most of the time he tried to take care of himself.

            After all, that’s all he’d ever really known.

            He actually sports a swollen lip and bloody knuckles the day the kid first shows up.

            He’s in fancy overalls and a frilly shirt, boots that reach his shins and the biggest, greenest eyes that Mizuki’s ever seen. His hair is light orange and his skin is so pale that Mizuki immediately realizes he’s not from Midorijima – or any part of Asia at all.

            He’s rich. Mizuki knows he is. And he’s standing on the corner of the street under a broken streetlight like a movie when Mizuki first sees him. That’s the first visual Mizuki ever gets of this kid, and he can’t possibly know how much his life is about to change.

            Mizuki is sitting in the gutter feeling sorry for himself, touching his fingertips to his lip when he leans forward and squints his eyes at the kid. He’s definitely staring. Several feet away, but his eyes are so _bright_. Mizuki frowns.

            “What are you looking at?”

            No response. Mizuki isn’t surprised.

            He stands up slowly, tightens his jacket around his chest and folds his arms.

            “Hey,” he calls louder. “I said, what are you _looking at?”_

Still no answer. Mizuki shakes his head in frustration. He’s tired and doesn’t want to deal with rich kids tonight. He’s just gotten done beating one of them up, and this kid is obviously years younger than him. He’s in the business of giving upper class snobs what they deserve, not decking little kids in the mouth. He approaches him anyway, fairly certain that he can simply intimidate him away, with his broad shoulders and tall boots boosting him up to at least four and a half feet. This kid has to be about – three?

            “What are you doing here?” he asks as he stops short of the kid, folds his arms and glares down his nose at him. He’s holding a large, stuffed rabbit in his arms, almost as big as he is. “Do you know where you are?”

            The kid’s eyebrows furrow a bit, but he otherwise remains silent. Mizuki licks his lips.

            “Get out of here,” he tells him. “This isn’t a place for rich kids. This is a place for kids whose parents don’t like them enough to give them two bedrooms and their own pool.”

            His head cocks to the side, and Mizuki thinks he registers the slightest bit of a spark in his eyes. Huh. That’s a little unusual. But it’s fairly clear at this point that he’s just screwing with him, and that makes Mizuki angry.

            He finally reaches out and pushes him against the lamppost.

            “I said get out of here!” he shouts. “Did you hear me? You don’t belong here!”

            The boy winces. Just slightly – as slight as the spark in his eyes – and Mizuki does too in response. He seems sort of genuine, and it starts to dawn on Mizuki that he may really not understand a word he’s saying. He takes his hands off him and backs up a few steps, poking at his lip again and licking some blood off his knuckle.

            “Look, you just – go home.” Mizuki pauses, and then purses his lips. “Go – home. You understand? _Home._ I don’t know what ‘home’ is in your language. Where are you even from?”

            The boy straightens up a bit and his gaze is so piercing. Mizuki bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. He only knows Japanese and a little bit of Tagalog. Even if he knew another language, it probably wouldn’t be this kid’s. He sighs and finally feels a little sorry for the kid, but figures it’s best for him to bully him out of here. Mizuki knows what happens to adorable little boys out here who can’t defend themselves. Usually he doesn’t care – he _can’t_ care, too many horrible things happen around here and he can’t possibly try to fight them all – but this kid seems strangely innocent and he can’t fathom the idea of him getting kidnapped.

            “ _Go!”_ Mizuki screams, his voice coming from the pit of his stomach, a bellowing rage that makes the kid back up against the lamppost in unadulterated shock and fear. His tiny hands reach behind him and grip the post..

            …yet he still doesn’t leave.

            “Fine,” Mizuki mutters, taking off his jacket and throwing it at the kid’s feet. “It’s going to get much colder tonight so you better take this. You don’t understand a word I’m saying. Whatever. Just.”

            He can’t just leave him, but there’s no way he’s inviting him into the building.

            He points, instead, at an alleyway next to it.

            “Go there. Dumpster. Go to the dumpster. There’s a hole in the wall you can curl up in. Ugh.”

            Mizuki grabs his hand and leads him into the alley, surprised that he doesn’t protest. He shoves the dumpster out of the way and points at the wall.

            “Sleep.” He picks up his jacket again and throws it at him. “Blanket.”

            The kid stands there, staring up at him like always, Mizuki’s leather jacket gripped tightly in one hand and his bunny in the other. Mizuki shakes his head and turns away. He’s probably safe there. Mizuki’s spent nights behind that dumpster before, when he’s hiding from people who know where to find him. But most likely, the kid will just run home, realizing he’s not being invited into the building, and whatever scheme he had planned failed.

            When Koujaku asks him where his jacket is, Mizuki snaps at him, telling him to mind his own business. Koujaku sneers and punches him in the shoulder. Mizuki shoves him back and then they fall asleep under the same blanket.

            The next morning, Mizuki stands by the dumpster, astonished.

            The kid is still asleep, mostly curled under the hole in the wall, the jacket wrapped around him tightly. He looks so small that Mizuki can’t bring himself to be annoyed anymore. He can only wonder where his parents are, and if there’s going to be a flyer with his face on it with a substantial reward pinned to bulletin boards around the city by the end of tonight.

            Mizuki takes a deep breath. He doesn’t really want to bother him, so he sits down next to the dumpster and waits until he hears shuffling about an hour later. It sounds like he’s waking up, so Mizuki waits until the sounds die down again and he stands up, making sure to make plenty of noise to avoid startling him, and then peeks his head around.

            The kid is squatting on the ground, his arms around his legs, his entire body drowning in Mizuki’s jacket and his stuffed bunny clutched in his hands. Mizuki’s mouth falls open in – he’s not sure what emotion he’s feeling. Disgust, mostly, that there’s a kid out here who’s obviously been either abused or abandoned. Some shock that he’s still here at all. And there’s a tiny bit of – ugh, it’s almost _endearment_ , because he does look a little adorable in the jacket.

            Mizuki sighs resignedly and offers his hand to the kid.

            “Get up.”

            The boy doesn’t take his hand. Mizuki frowns and thrusts his hand out further.

            “Come _on.”_

He still doesn’t react, and Mizuki scratches his head. This is baffling. How did this responsibility fall to him? He just saw a kid last night and now he’s a parent?

            “Food?” he says.

            The kid finally looks up at him with his huge eyes. He seemed to understand that word.

            “Food,” Mizuki repeats. After a few seconds, the boy finally nods. It’s such a relief that Mizuki nods too, a sense of joy flooding through him. He thinks for a moment, then puts both his palms out to face him, indicating to him to stay where he is. “Stay. Stay?”

            He nods again. Mizuki grins. He points at the kid.

            “You. Stay.” He nods questioningly and the boy nods back. “Good.” He points at himself. “I, food. You, stay.”

            Another nod and Mizuki’s running as fast as he can to the deli down the street. He has more than enough for two sandwiches, given that the owner’s daughter often gives him things for free. He sneaks several condiment packets into his pocket too, to stock up back at home. He has no idea what the kid might like, so he tries to get as many different meats as he can, and then rockets back to the dumpster, happy to find that he’s sitting cross-legged with his rabbit, Mizuki’s jacket still around his shoulders.

            He extends both sandwiches out to him and weighs his hands. The kid stares at them both, then leans forward and sniffs them both. Mizuki smiles in confusion as he takes the one with roast beef and turkey, not surprised he went for the more western of the two.

            They sit in silence as they eat their sandwiches. Not that Mizuki can imagine any kind of conversation that they could have.

            “Is he still there?” Aoba asks, wide-eyed and rapt as Mizuki relays to him and Koujaku the story of the dumpster boy. He shrugs and looks at the floor of Aoba’s room.

            “I have no idea. I assume so. I gave him a sandwich and then he just… laid down and went back to sleep.”

            “You just left him there?” Koujaku asks. He’s less judgmental and more concerned. Mizuki is a little embarrassed.

            “I mean, I… I waited until his breathing slowed down and I knew he was asleep,” he admits. Neither of his friends seem to realize why that’s so embarrassing, for which Mizuki is grateful. “I just didn’t know what to do.”

            “Let him in the house,” Aoba says as if it’s clearly obvious. Koujaku and Mizuki both sigh and Aoba rolls his eyes. “Sorry. _Building.”_

“No, it’s not that,” Mizuki shakes his head. He and Koujaku have often rebuked Aoba for considering their building a home when his own is so luxurious and comfortable. But it’s not as easy as Aoba thinks. “Most kids are allowed to stay a night or two, but this kid is obviously rich. Like, _really_ rich.”

            “So?”

            “Rich kids have other rich kids to stay with,” Koujaku says. “So we don’t usually let them stay with us.”

            Aoba frowns.

            “How old did you say he was?”

            “I have no idea,” Mizuki shrugs. “I’d guess around six or seven.”

            “What were you doing at six years old?”

            Aoba doesn’t know it, but he’s hit a nerve – and a damn good point, too. Mizuki purses his lips and shakes his head. At six, he did anything he could to find a good home and a good bed. If this kid is rich and he’s sleeping in a literal hole in the wall overnight – he probably really is abandoned. Or worse.

            “The other kids won’t like it,” Mizuki says. “His frilly shirt. His boots.”

            Aoba’s eyelids droop in incredulity. He heaves a frustrated sigh and stands up from his bed, much to Koujaku’s dismay. Mizuki tries not to shoot him a glare; Koujaku is pretty irreversibly in love with Aoba and everyone can tell _but_ Aoba. Koujaku frowns at Mizuki as Aoba crosses the room to his dresser and opens the drawers, pulling out a few shirts and some cloth shorts.

            “Here,” he says, tossing them to Mizuki. They land on his face and in his lap. “Change him into these. No one will know.”

            Mizuki takes a deep breath, reluctantly admitting that this was actually a good idea.

            “He’ll be swimming in them,” Koujaku says. “They’re way too big.”

            “All the better,” Aoba says dumbly, making fun of Koujaku enough to make him whine in sadness. “He’ll look like he has no other clothes.”

            Aoba is right. Mizuki takes off about twenty minutes later, some of Tae-san’s leftovers with him, leaving Koujaku and Aoba alone in Aoba’s bedroom to kiss or whatever Koujaku tries to get Aoba to do with him and heads back to the dumpster, Aoba’s clothes in hand. His heart starts to race and his stomach does flips as he considers the possibility that the kid will be gone, and he’ll have no idea if he left, or if he went home, or if someone found him – or something worse. In fact, he starts to sweat in panic so much that he sprints the last quarter mile home, even sweatier and out of breath when he finally treks into the alleyway.

            He despises how relieved he is when the kid is still there.

            He hands him the leftovers first, which he takes greedily and devours in minutes. Kare Raisue doesn’t seem to bother him, and Mizuki smiles. The kid can handle his spice. That’s good. Maybe he is from Midorijima, after all.

            Once the boy looks up from the plastic box that’s been licked clean, Mizuki hands him Aoba’s clothes.

            “Put these on. Uh,” he pauses, trying to think of how to get him to understand. “Clothes?”

            He nods. Mizuki smiles.

            “Clothes. Clothes!”

            Mizuki doesn’t know what else to say, but the kid seems to get the idea. He immediately unhooks his suspenders and drops them down, and Mizuki jumps in surprise.

            “Whoa!” he shouts, covering his eyes and turning around. He takes a few steps away from the dumpster to let him get dressed in private, and when he comes out, his steps are so light and delicate and the shirt is so big that Mizuki curls his lip in disgust.

            He hates cute things. _Despises_ them.

            He has no problem getting him up to his room and onto an old, dirty mattress. He shoves it next to his own bed and then takes his hand and guides him to it, handing him a real blanket as he sits down on it so gingerly that Mizuki remembers how small he really is.

            “Do you understand Japanese?” Mizuki asks slowly. To his surprise, the boy shrugs his shoulders. “You do?” He shrugs again. “A little bit?” He nods slightly, and Mizuki nods back. That’s enough to go on. Then, just in case: “Tagalog?”

            The boy stares at him. Yeah, Mizuki figured he didn’t know it, but he had to make sure.

            “You… can’t… stay… here… long,” Mizuki says slowly, his hands gesturing the words to him. “Understand?”

            The boy looks at the floor. Mizuki’s heart breaks.

            “Two… nights,” he says again. He doesn’t want to leave him in the dust, but… he can’t get caught with a kid this rich in the building. It puts everyone at risk. He makes a mental note to check the city for and police station for missing children posters tomorrow. In the meantime, he stares at the kid painfully, who nods and then throws himself backwards against his pillow, hugging his bunny tight to his chest, and crossing his arms in anger.

            He’s angry with Mizuki.

            Something about that makes Mizuki want to cry.

            He tries to cover him with the blanket, but he cries out and kicks his foot up, smacking Mizuki in the face.

            That just makes Mizuki angry, too.

            “Fine!” he shouts, standing up and throwing the blanket down at him. “Tuck yourself in! Your parents sure aren’t here to do it anymore, you spoiled brat!”

            Mizuki falls asleep that night before Koujaku gets home, his arms crossed in anger, too.

            He wakes up the next morning to two pairs of eyes on him – Koujaku and Aoba are sitting on the side of Koujaku’s bed, their feet resting on the broken board that serves as a frame and their faces full of – worry? Curiosity? Mizuki can’t really read them that well; he’s too busy jumping out of his blanket and clutching his chest when he realizes it’s just them.

            “Why are you staring at me while I’m sleeping?”

            “We weren’t,” Koujaku says quickly, his expression never changing.

            “You – you were,” Mizuki says in irritation. “I – I just saw you – I just opened my eyes and – you were staring at me.”

            “Aoba wanted to see Dumpster Kid,” Koujaku whispers. Mizuki frowns. “And I kind of do, too. Did you bring him in last night?”

            Mizuki would keep arguing, but that does remind him that he needs to check on the kid. He purses his lips and turns around to peek over the side of his bed.

            Dumpster Kid is there, his bunny tight in his hands as always and his eyes wide open as he stares at Mizuki’s bed.

            “Hey,” Mizuki whispers. His eyes shift up and pierce right through Mizuki’s, like a harpoon through the chest. A harpoon through the chest might be a bit grandiose, but that’s what it feels like. Mizuki’s never seen someone with almost the exact same eye color as him, and now he understands why Koujaku says his glare could freeze the fires of Hell.

            “Is that him?” Koujaku whispers. Mizuki takes a deep breath to try to calm his heart and sighs in even more irritation. Koujaku can have a hard time reading situations sometimes.

            “Yes, shut up. He’s scared enough and hardly speaks any Japanese.”

            “What does he speak?”

            Mizuki whirls around and sneers at Koujaku.

            “How should I know? He looks white.”

            “Wait, really?”

            “I don’t know! I haven’t been able to communicate with him!” Mizuki shouts. “Stop talking! Hold on.”

            Mizuki turns back around and –

            “…Where the hell did you get that sucker?”

            The boy continues staring, in the same position as before – still curled up on his side, the blanket draped off his back like a cape. Except now he has a sucker in his mouth.

            “You didn’t get that from the floor did you?” Mizuki asks, mostly to himself. To his surprise, the boy shakes his head. Mizuki’s mouth drops open. “Did you understand that?” The boy doesn’t respond, and Mizuki doesn’t know what to do. He bites his bottom lip to think for a few moments and finally breathes in through his nose, shutting his eyes slowly, and deciding to take a risk.

            He sits up in bed, leans down to the boy, and slips one hand under him. He puts the other around his waist, expecting some sort of resistance, but he gets none. He almost falls off the bed as he pulls the kid up, cradling him like an actual baby as he sets him down. It feels so strange and intimate that he immediately retracts his arms, letting him settle against the foot of the bed, and then pointing at Koujaku and Aoba.

            “Friends,” he says. The boy looks at him and then to the other two. His eyes scan Koujaku’s body and then stop on Aoba. He’s still impossible to read, but he’s absolutely transfixed on Aoba and Mizuki assumes it’s the blue hair. That tends to get to people. He turns to Koujaku and Aoba and sighs: “Dumpster Kid. I guess.”

            “He’s so small,” Aoba almost coos, his natural empathy oozing out of him. Mizuki rolls his eyes. Aoba is too nice for his own good. Koujaku sizes him up for a few seconds and then stands up from the bed, takes a few steps toward him and sticks his hand out for a shake.

            “I’m Koujaku,” he states proudly, apparently having forgotten everything Mizuki just said – and that Dumpster Kid is not of an age where one usually shakes hands in greeting. Mizuki turns to him to see what he does. After a few seconds of staring at Koujaku, Dumpster Kid frowns at him intensely.

            “Whoa,” Mizuki says, trying to hid his amusement. “I don’t think he likes you.”

            Koujaku is indignant.

            “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “That’s not a very nice way to greet someone.”

            “He’s like six,” Mizuki chides. “And he doesn’t _understand you.”_

“He didn’t sneer at _you_ when you met him, did he?”

            “No, but that’s because he –” Mizuki is glad that Dumpster Kid interrupts him, because he didn’t really have a good insult for Koujaku. He reaches out and grabs Koujaku’s sleeves, then pushes him to the side with as much force as he can muster – which isn’t much, but Koujaku is so shocked that he falls over anyway.

            “What is _wrong_ with him!” he shouts, his mouth gaping and his eyebrows slanted. Mizuki laughs.

            “He just doesn’t like you… but he does seem to like…”

            Dumpster Kid has suddenly gone red, his head tilting toward the ground but his eyes still fixed on Aoba. Mizuki looks at his blue-haired friend and tries to stifle his laughter at his confused face.

            That’s when Dumpster Kid suddenly pulls the blanket tighter – and scoots closer to Mizuki.

            It feels weirdly familial and Mizuki would chalk it up as a one-time thing, if he didn’t do it three more times that day.

            Once, when he was walking by the other kids in the boarding house, again when Mizuki stopped to talk to the girl at the deli, and one more time, when Mizuki took him on the train and they had to squeeze behind the mass of people. He would grab his hand, shuffle behind him, and hide.

            Mizuki hates it.

            He hates it because it makes him feel. He’s not one to shy away from emotions, but it makes him feel something he can’t quite put his finger on, and that’s what he doesn’t like.

            That night, Mizuki hands him a toothbrush and he takes it gingerly, his rabbit in his other hand. He watches Mizuki in the mirror as he starts to brush his teeth, and then he tentatively places the toothbrush in his own mouth, eyes still fixed on Mizuki through the mirror and starts to brush – exactly the same as Mizuki does.

            When Mizuki brushes his front teeth, he brushes his front teeth too. When Mizuki gets the back of his molars, so does the kid. Mizuki even takes the toothbrush out of his mouth completely for a moment to stare at Dumpster Kid, and Dumpster Kid does too.

            He’s copying Mizuki. All of Mizuki’s movements. Does he not know how to brush his teeth?

            He stays next to Mizuki again, and Koujaku pretends he doesn’t even exist, blabbering on and on about some girl he’d met the other day and Mizuki isn’t listening. He doesn’t really care about girls like Koujaku does, and he’s too busy looking down at Dumpster Kid’s sleeping face. It’s almost the same as his normal, unchanging, expressionless face except somehow more… something.

            Innocent, probably.

            Why is this kid here? Where are his parents? Does he even have a family?

            Mizuki knows it’s possible for kids his age to not have a family. But kids his age in clothes like that… they usually have a family. And there are no posters with this kid’s face plastered on them around town.

            Mizuki doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know where’s from. He doesn’t know a thing about him.

            He gives the kid one of his sketchbooks and a pencil, hoping something might come of it. He stares at Mizuki as always, wide-eyed but empty and Mizuki wrinkles his brow. Dumpster Kid really knows how to make a guy feel like an idiot.

            But he also follows Mizuki _everywhere_ , and even though he knows he has to figure something out soon, he kind of likes it. Well, he doesn’t _like_ it – he keeps telling Dumpster Kid to stop getting so close, stop grabbing his waistband, stop hiding behind his legs. But he’s already somehow incredibly loyal and Mizuki doesn’t know why. He supposes it’s because he fed him. He’s like a stray. If you feed them, they keep coming back. Mizuki fed him, and now he can’t shake him. But other kids are going to start asking what his story is and Mizuki doesn’t feel good lying to them. He also doesn’t feel good abandoning a kid this young, who can’t speak Japanese very well. He weighs it over in his mind for two days, finally coming to the conclusion on the morning of the fifth day: Dumpster Kid has to find his parents.

            He’s obviously rich. Someone will come looking for him and when they do, Mizuki will have put all the other orphans in danger by hiding this kid. His stomach turns as he realizes if he can’t get any names out of the kid, he’ll have to go to the police. He doesn’t have the best relationship with the police, but he has to do something. Dumpster Kid doesn’t belong here.

            But then it happens.

            Mizuki isn’t sure if he wants to lead the kid to the police station directly or if he wants to go on his own, leave the kid behind, and then bring the police to him. Asking him for any kind of name was only met with vacant stares and vague pointing. Mizuki tried to guess – maybe the family name was a direction? West? Or maybe sun? Roof? What the hell are you pointing at, Dumpster Kid?!

            He’s walking aimlessly, worried about setting the boy off if he makes it too obvious that he’s headed toward the police station, when he realizes he’s walked a bit too far west. The station is only two blocks in the other direction, but Mizuki accidentally brought them both into an even seedier part of Midorijima than where he lived – where the orphans go when they grow up.

            The neighborhood is effectively Mizuki’s future, and he hates it. Older teenagers and adults who all belong to gangs and solicit the kids from Mizuki’s building – he hates it. He knows he’s destined for it, but the idea that all of his friends – these good, powerful kids – are going to end up like this with him… he can’t stand the thought of it.

            He’s only stopped for three seconds to realize where he is when an older kid turns out of an alley to their right and blocks their path. Mizuki immediately scowls; he sort of recognizes this kid. Sometimes he comes around Mizuki’s building and tries to get kids to sell drugs, which is stupid because Akushima doesn’t give a shit about drugs. He’s head of the police force and he’s more interested in Toue’s technology than he is actually keeping crime off the streets. Drugs aren’t really that hard to buy or sell – and they aren’t even that expensive. Mizuki doesn’t even know anyone interested in them anymore, but that doesn’t stop this kid. He must be fifteen or sixteen, and no one even utters a word before it happens.

            The kid steps forward, shoves his palm against Mizuki’s shoulder – as he usually does – and is about to speak when Dumpster Kid comes out of nowhere. A little blur of orange and blue – Dumpster Kid’s hair with Aoba’s shirt – his bunny in his hands. Still. Always. He never lets go of that bunny. It’s filthy.

            Mizuki’s first thought is that Dumpster Kid is a literal dog that’s come tearing down the alleyway. For the first time, he hears his voice – loud and whiney, like a little kid. He’s screaming – actually _growling –_ like an actual attack dog. He flings his rabbit in the older kid’s face, taking him off guard and causing him to fall backwards onto his ass. Before Mizuki can register what he’s doing, Dumpster Kid is leaning over him, smacking him over and over with his bunny, screaming – howling. He’s also spitting something onto his face – tiny candies? Where the hell did he get those? How long has he had those in his mouth?

            “What the hell is this?!” the older kid screams, and that’s what brings Mizuki back into the moment. Oh God, this kid is going to get himself killed. He reaches forward immediately and pulls Dumpster Kid back into his arms, sweeps his feet off the ground and cradles him like a baby, turning heel and running as fast as he can.

            But it doesn’t matter. He can hear the other kid running after them, and Dumpster Kid is only slowing him. He’s no good protecting this kid if just _holding_ him is going to get them caught.

            It’s all happened so fast, which Mizuki is usually okay with; he’s used to getting into random scrapes with Koujaku – sometimes they go out looking for trouble on purpose because they’re bored. But this is serious. If Mizuki gets beat up this time, it’s not just him. He can hold his own. A five year old can’t.

            Well, he assumes he can’t, at least. That was an impressive display back there. Mizuki wasn’t expecting it. But he assumes if Dumpster Kid doesn’t have the element of surprise to his advantage, he won’t be quite as formidable opponent.

            Mizuki has to think quick. He knows he’s coming up to a fork in the road. One way leads to an open street and the other into another alleyway. The kid is going to assume he’ll head for the street, but Mizuki knows it’s hardly busy at this time of day. There won’t be anyone there to stop a fight if it breaks out, plus he’ll still have this kid in his arms. He has an idea, but it’ll be a big risk. He’s really banking on Dumpster Kid’s namesake.

            He turns left into the alley and lets out a quick sigh of relief.

            The dumpster is there and it’s open.

            He picks up his pace as best he can and jumps, his elbow smacking hard against the rim of the dumpster and his opposite foot slipping against a handle on the side. Dumpster Kid tumbles into the dumpster and Mizuki falls off, his body already smarting, and slamming his knee on the pavement on the way down. He groans in pain but forces himself back up anyway to jump up again, reach for the lid, and pull it down.

            “Just wait!” he shouts a little too late. The lid is already down. He turns around and the kid is finally catching up to him, so he takes a deep breath and gets a head start: he runs straight toward him, crying out in pain as his knee almost buckles below him, but at least Dumpster Kid is safe.

            All things considered, he doesn’t end up worse for the wear a few minutes later.

            They both only manage to throw a couple punches before the older kid says it isn’t worth it, spits on Mizuki’s shoes, and leaves. He did get Mizuki pretty good in the mouth, and Mizuki worries he’s going to lose a tooth one of these days. Everyone always goes for his mouth. He has no idea why. But he landed a blow to the kid’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. That was when he wheezed and hobbled away. Mizuki had to fall to the ground for a few moments to catch his breath. His lip was bleeding and there was dirt all over him. Spit all over him. Some blood. Not even sure if it was all his own.

            When he stands up, he realizes more time has passed than he was aware of – it’s significantly darker and when he looks up at the sky, the sun is already setting. He bites his bottom lip and knows he must have a concussion. He’ll have to get Dumpster Kid and go to Tae-san for some medical attention. She made them all promise to come to her about head injuries; they were the most important ones. He sighs, already trying to think of a lie for Dumpster Kid that won’t put Aoba in a weird place, and heads back to the dumpster, limping and hoping he hasn’t broken any bones. Jumping onto the dumpster hurt more than the fight itself, so he approaches gently, lifts the lid up, and puts a hand on the rim again, easing himself up slower this time.

            “Hey, sorry,” he says, keeping his voice light, hoping to keep Dumpster Kid at ease. He hoists himself up again and situates his waist against the rim, taking a breath and reaching down into the dumpster, his head spinning.

            Dumpster Kid is staring up at him with emotion on his face for the first time – and it’s terror. Mizuki’s entire body goes cold as he realizes that he’s scared and he tries to think of something to say.

            Nothing comes to mind. He can’t understand anyway.

            There are tears in his eyes and Mizuki shakes his head.

            “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Understand? Sorry? Sorry.”

            Dumpster Kid starts to cry quietly, and then the smallest smile spreads on his lips.

            “You’re smiling,” Mizuki says to himself in utter confusion. “That’s nice but why are you – you’re smiling. Well, kind of.”

            Dumpster Kid reaches up to Mizuki and stands up on the pile of garbage he was sitting on. Mizuki grabs under his arms and pulls him up, takes him safely into his arms and has him clasp his hands around his neck as he jumps down, one hand around his rear end to steady him –

            That’s when he feels something wet.

            He puts Dumpster Kid down and he continues crying. Mizuki has never felt heartbreak before but this is it. He’s sure that this broke his heart. He terrified this poor kid. He threw him in a damn dumpster and he’s wet himself in fear. Mizuki puts his head in his hands and wants to cry himself, but wanting to cry never makes Mizuki feel better. It makes him feel angry. He hates crying. So he groans in frustration, which upsets Dumpster Kid even more.

            “No, no,” he says quickly, leaning down on his injured knees and putting his hands out to soothe him. “I’m not mad at you. Come here.”

            But Dumpster Kid doesn’t come here. His eyes go wide and he runs past Mizuki, his tiny fists starting to bang on the dumpster as he screams.

            “What are you doing!” Mizuki cries, covering his ears with his hands. “Why are you screaming, God! Stop screaming, someone’s going to find us!”

            Dumpster Kid stops banging on the dumpster and turns to look Mizuki in the eye. Then he stamps one foot and points at the dumpster.

            “Theo!”

            It’s the first real thing he’s ever said, and Mizuki has no idea what it was.

            “Dee – dee-o?”

            He turns around and starts banging against the dumpster again. The screams are back and Mizuki realizes suddenly that something is missing – his bunny.

            “Okay, okay!” he shouts, moving him out of the way and climbing the dumpster yet again. “I get it! I get it! Stop screaming, I’ll get your damn bunny!”

            He doesn’t know why he’s angry. Of course the kid is upset.

            But something about this kid being upset making _him_ upset is – upsetting.

            He fishes the rabbit out and mutters something about washing it at Aoba’s place, though he probably doesn’t need to. It’s been disgusting this entire time. He throws it to the ground in rebellion against Dumpster Kid, but he doesn’t seem to register it. He quickly scoops the bunny up into his arms again and thankfully, the screaming stops.

            Mizuki hops off the dumpster again and sits down against it. Dumpster Kid has a piece of gum in his mouth. Mizuki is done questioning this.

            “I gotta rest,” he says, shaking his head at Dumpster Kid. “Rest. Understand? Rest.”

            Dumpster Kid doesn’t reply, but he does waddle over to Mizuki and squats down right next to him. His knee touches Mizuki’s elbow the entire time they catch their breath, and Mizuki finds that after some quiet time, he isn’t quite as angry anymore.

            He takes Dumpster Kid back to his building and fills up the tub. He awkwardly pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, hesitant to actually strip the kid of his clothes himself, but Dumpster Kid simply stares at him. He points at the tub and then dips his fingers into it, swirling the water around slightly. Dumpster Kid just barely angles up onto his tiptoes and peers into the water, then drops his bunny to the floor and ambles over to the tub. He puts his palms on the edge and then climbs in, clothes and all. He curls into a ball but doesn’t seem to relax at all. Mizuki tugs at his collar again and Dumpster Kid looks up at him with big eyes and Mizuki has to actively stop his heart from breaking again.

            He finally gets his clothes off and into the sink. He starts scrubbing them with the bar of soap and Dumpster Kid entertains himself by dunking his head under the water every few seconds. Mizuki is kind of glad; the kid hasn’t washed his hair since he got here. He was starting to smell. And he already kind of smelled in the first place.

            Mizuki hangs his clothes up to dry on the line that runs across the dingy bathroom, just above the heater. Then he finds some of his own clothes for Dumpster Kid to change into, figuring that if Tae-san sees him in Aoba’s clothes, she’ll have to ask questions. He holds a towel up for him to get out of the bath and accidentally gets a flutter in his heart when he ruffles his hair dry and takes the towel away to find it sticking up in every direction and Dumpster Kid completely unaware of how adorable he looks. There’s a feeling there. It’s not perverse. It’s just – something Mizuki has never felt before. Protective, but in a different way than he is about Koujaku or Aoba.

            He can’t describe it, so he ignores it and goes back to readying Dumpster Kid for Aoba’s.

            “What are you doing here?”

            Mizuki frowns at Koujaku. He’s standing on Aoba’s doorstep, Dumpster Kid’s hand in his.

            “What are _you_ doing here?”

            “I’m seeing Aoba.”

            “Well, so am I.”

            “Why did you bring him?”

            “Because you know he can’t go anywhere else.”

            Koujaku furrows his brows.

            “Then why did you come here now?”

            “I need Tae-san to make sure I don’t have a concussion.”

            Koujaku leans closer and squints at Mizuki’s face. His mouth opens slightly and he cocks his head to the side.

            “You get in a fight?”

            “Yeah,” Mizuki nods.

            “Why?”

            “Just went into the wrong territory. I wasn’t thinking. Trying to get Dumpster K – this – kid to the police station. I just got distracted. I had to throw him in a dumpster to keep him safe.”

            Koujaku raises his eyebrows.

            “Makes sense.”

            “So… you gonna let us in?”

            Koujaku cocks his head to the side and a grin spreads across his lips. He’s about to say something insufferable, Mizuki knows it, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a small cry. Dumpster Kid’s foot is crushing his, his tiny sneaker that’s still two sizes to big for him grinding Koujaku’s bare foot into the concrete. Mizuki pulls him away by the shoulders immediately and Koujaku pulls his foot up, hopping backwards.

            “Hey! What the hell was that?!”

            Mizuki doesn’t really know what to say. He’s still gripping Dumpster Kid’s shoulders, staring at Koujaku with his mouth agape. He decides the best course of action is to simply not acknowledge it at all. He strolls inside and leads Dumpster Kid straight into the kitchen, finding Tae-san at the sink. He also happens to notice Dumpster Kid’s eyes go wide when he sees all the food on the table, and Aoba sitting on one side.

            “Mizuki!” Aoba says cheerfully as he approaches his grandmother. “What are you doing here?”

            “I was hoping Tae-san might help me… I think I need someone to look at my eyes. I hit my head earlier. Pretty bad.”

            Tae-san immediately starts to grumble but turns around anyway and puts her hand out for Mizuki to take. He looks down at Dumpster Kid and lets go of his hand in favor of Tae-san’s, then says, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Understand?”

            Dumpster Kid nods, his eyes never leaving Aoba. Mizuki smirks and Aoba seems slightly confused. As Tae-san lead him to the bathroom, they pass a fairly annoyed Koujaku in the doorway, watching Dumpster Kid watch Aoba. That makes Mizuki smile even wider.

            “So… who’s the kid?”

            Tae-san has already checked Mizuki’s pupils to make sure they dilate and they do. She said everything seems to check out but wants to dress his wounds anyway, including rubbing alcohol on his swollen lip, which stings like hell. The rubbing alcohol is always worse than the fight itself and Mizuki can almost never hold in tears at the burn.

            “Friend,” Mizuki says. He already has to keep her in the dark as to his and Koujaku’s actual living arrangements, so explaining Dumpster Kid is going to be especially hard. “His family knows my family.”

            “Hm,” Tae-san grunts, turning the bottle of alcohol over onto another cotton ball. Mizuki braces. “And you’re just looking after him all by yourself?”

            “Just for the afternoon,” he says as Tae-san comes at him with the cotton ball. “We went to the playground and just got a little too – _ow, shit that hurts._ Shit. Shit, that hurts!” Tae-san pulls the cotton ball away and Mizuki immediately grabs his bottom lip in pain. “Shit. We just – got too rough. I fell and scraped myself bad. Shit, that hurts.”

            Tae-san doesn’t believe him for a second, but he’s grateful that she plays along.

            He’s grateful that she doesn’t make him fend for himself. She plays along, but never leaves him or Koujaku to starve. She’s probably caught on to the entire situation, in fact – she makes _feasts_ sometimes, and sends enough home with them for ten people. For their families, she says, and Koujaku always seems more ashamed than Mizuki. Maybe that’s because his mother actually knew Tae-san, but in any case, the other orphans eat very good that night.

            And she does the same for Dumpster Kid. She stacks some books up on a chair so he can reach the table and serves him the plainer food, before she adds in the spices. It’s easier on his mouth, even if he doesn’t realize she’s done it. Mizuki realizes during their conversation that he’s a wallflower. He’s a fly on the wall. He observes. He observes everyone and everything, his big, innocent eyes taking in every last detail.

            Then Tae-san asks him his name and Mizuki panics.

            “Deo,” he says quickly. It was the only thing that came to mind.

            “Deo?” Aoba asks. Mizuki shoots him a warning glare. _Don’t call me out on this because you’ll get in just as much trouble as I do!_

“Nose!”

            All four of them turn to Dumpster Kid in surprise. He fumbles with his chopsticks and drops them between his fingers onto the table. Mizuki reaches across to pick them up and hand them to him.

            “What’s wrong with him?”

            Mizuki looks to Koujaku and stutters for a second. Dumpster Kid frowns at Koujaku, his eyes turning to slits as his lips scowl at him menacingly.

            “He said – no – noise. He said noise. His nickname. His nickname is Noise.”

            “Noise?” Tae-san asks. “How did he get that nickname?”

            “Well, you know,” Mizuki shrugs and stuffs a forkful of food in his mouth just then to buy himself some time to think of an answer. “It’s not spelled like… _Noise._ It’s spelled… N-O-I-Z. Just a silly thing. I don’t know how it started. That’s just what his family calls him.”

            “But what’s his real name?”

            Mizuki swallows hard.

            “D-Deo.”

            Dumpster Kid drops his chopsticks on the floor.

            “Theo!”

            Koujaku squints at him.

            “You okay there, kiddo?” he laughs. “Having a hard time with those chopsticks? Do you need a fork?”

            Aoba picks up the chopstick and hands it to Dumpster Kid, who immediately chucks it down the table at Koujaku.

            _“Nose!”_ he screeches. The entire table covers their ears. Mizuki reaches over and grabs his hand, pressing it against the table to keep him still. Koujaku whines in protest and paws at his face, wiping down his cheek and checking to make sure there’s no blood like the drama queen he is.

            “See?” Mizuki gestures towards him with a smile. “Noiz.” It seems to suffice well enough, or else Tae-san is being more gracious than usual and letting Mizuki get away with murder here. The dinner continues with far less excitement from there and Tae-san bandages up Dumpster Kid’s scraped knee before they head back. Koujaku stays behind for a bit, as usual, and Mizuki holds Dumpster Kid’s hand all the way home.

            “Noiz?” he asks. Dumpster Kid looks up at him. “Can I call you Noiz?”

            He nods. Mizuki realizes that Dumpster Kid – no, _Noiz_ understands Japanese a lot more than he lets on. He simply doesn’t speak. Mizuki wonders if he has some speech problem or if he just doesn’t speak the language. Or maybe he’s just – shy.

            Mizuki takes a quick shower – only about three minutes long, making sure to clean all the leftover blood off his body – and spends a few minutes afterwards alone in the bathroom. He often only finds time to himself while taking a shit or after a shower and as much as he tries to avoid the mirror, he always ends up staring at himself. He doesn’t hate his appearance. He doesn’t really think about it at all. Koujaku likes to primp and style his hair and test out moisturizers and crap like that. Mizuki doesn’t mind it, but he’s never really thought about himself that way. A person who needs to be taken care of or kept up with. He just is. As long as he isn’t dying, he’s probably going to be fine.

            When he finally comes out, Noiz is sitting at the broken piece of wood that serves as a makeshift desk. Mizuki tries to stand in the doorway quietly so as not to disturb him – he has a pencil in his hand. He’s actually using the sketchbook Mizuki gave him.

            Mizuki waits until Noiz’s hand stills and puts the pencil down. It’s almost a solid fifteen minutes he just stands there, wanting badly for Noiz to finish his drawing without getting startled and hoping that he’ll show it to him once it’s done. Noiz sits and stares at the paper for a few seconds and then puts his hands in his laps. He finally stands up and starts to amble over to his mattress, where he crawls from the foot to the top like a baby, and when he turns around he locks eyes with Mizuki, startled.

            “Did you draw something?”

            Noiz doesn’t reply.

            “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mizuki says. “You were just drawing so intensely. I didn’t want to bother you. Can I… see it?”

            Noiz still doesn’t answer and Mizuki assumes that means it’s okay. He takes a few steps over slowly, allowing Noiz time to scream or shake his head or speak for once, but he only turns his head slightly as he watches him make his way over. He left the sketchbook open, anyway. Surely he doesn’t mind.

            It’s a crude little picture but it’s still sweet: a bunny with buckteeth, his feet curled under him and his ears flat against his head. The kid really likes rabbits. There’s a little square next to it with some sort of face on it but Mizuki doesn’t recognize it as anything significant. He smiles nonetheless; drawing is the only way he knows to get his feelings out. Seeing Noiz’s art means more to him than anyone else might realize. Even if he’s only six.

            “What’s this?” he asks finally. “The square?”

            Noiz shrugs.

            “Just a shape?”

            He nods and Mizuki smiles at him.

            “I like it. It would be a good team symbol. I’ve been trying to think of something for the kids who stay here. Tag art or something, so we know what buildings it’s safe to enter, that kind of thing.”

            Noiz suddenly nods at the sketchbook and Mizuki raises his eyebrows.

            “You want me to draw it?”

            Noiz nods. Mizuki smiles wider, then tries to cover it up as he sits down and sketches out the skull and the blood spatter behind it that’s been rolling around in his mind for years. He doesn’t know where it came from, but it’s really stuck in there and he can’t figure out how to tweak it. He picks up the sketchbook and shows it to Noiz, who doesn’t react whatsoever. Mizuki didn’t really expect him to, but when he’d shown Koujaku the first design, he just didn’t get it. At least Noiz didn’t laugh in his face.

            Then he finally notices the stick figure with long, bright blue hair. An unsophisticated face but long eyelashes and a willowy body, even for a straight line. The figure is holding hands with another one, a slightly smaller person with orange hair and – Mizuki thinks it’s a veil. Mizuki can feel his face contort slowly as realization wash over him. He breaks into a big grin and wide eyes.

            “I’m framing that. For sure.”

            He tucks Noiz into the mattress that night and swears that Noiz’s lips curl up in a tiny smile at him. Mizuki gives him a pained smile back, that feeling in his heart returning and it makes him angry. Everything makes Mizuki angry. He frowns and turns away, dropping Noiz’s blanket on his face and then climbing into his own bed and turning away from him. Why does this keep happening?

            He wakes up in the middle of the night when a lump flops against him. He turns around to see Noiz asleep in his bed and he has no idea when he got there. He’s too sleepy to make him leave – that’s what he tells himself, at least.

            When he wakes up the next morning, Noiz has filled the page with bunnies. And what’s more, he’s found the colored pencils – Mizuki’s _really nice_ colored pencils – and colored the whole page.

            What catches Mizuki’s eyes the most is his own symbol – Noiz has colored the blood spatter purple instead of red.

            Something about that makes Mizuki tear up. The kid doesn’t recognize blood. It wasn’t his first instinct, to color it something violent. Mizuki isn’t sure what it could be other than blood, but something feels right about it.

            “I think you fixed my design,” he says. Noiz leans his head against Mizuki’s waist and Mizuki ruffles his hair before he pulls away in concern. No need to get all paternal about this. Noiz isn’t _his_ kid.

            He takes him to the playground the next day, still debating whether or not to go to the police. He could always just tell Tae-san, as it isn’t like she doesn’t suspect already. Or he could go look for Noiz’s parents on his own – though he’d have to figure out his real name. “Dumpster Kid” and “Noiz” aren’t exactly the best monikers, nor are they going to make any parent feel exactly like he was being taken care of in his absence. Of course, he would have to figure out how to keep himself and Koujaku and the rest of the kids – and Tae-san and Aoba – out of it. Risking all of their safety is out of the question and that puts a pretty big crimp in the plan.

            Noiz tugs on his hand in the sandbox, a sucker now in his mouth, urging him to sit down next to him as he considers that he could just do nothing at all.

            Noiz is an orphan now. A street urchin, just like him.

            It’s been almost a full week and Mizuki knows the other kids are going to start asking questions soon, so he has to figure it out _today_. Right now, in fact. The logical part of him knows he should go to the police. But there’s a part of him that’s leaning toward just keeping him. He’d have to figure out if that would simply be frowned upon or if it’s a straightforward kidnapping. It’s not like he actively went out and _stole_ Noiz. The kid came to him. And he doesn’t seem to _want_ to leave. He hides behind Mizuki’s legs, he climbs into his bed at night, he turns into a vicious attack dog when Mizuki is even _slightly_ threatened – he actually _is_ a dog. He’s loyal. He doesn’t like to be alone. Mizuki has no idea why Noiz attached to him of all people, but he seems to actually look up to him, like a little brother or something.

            That’s it. That’s the feeling Mizuki keeps getting. It’s like – a brotherly feeling or something. It’s protective, not like a friend, but like a parent. Like an older sibling. Like Noiz is his blood relation and Mizuki has to make sure he’s okay at all times. He’s only known this kid for a week though, so he can’t fathom how he developed that so quickly –

            He’s gone.

            Mizuki’s head swivels from side to side. Noiz isn’t at his feet anymore. He’s not sitting in the sandbox on his haunches as usual, playing with sand filled with old cat piss and bird shit. Immediately, Mizuki starts to panic as he stands up so quickly that all the blood rushes to his head. He tries to take a few steps but the dizziness blurs his vision and he trips over the side of the sandbox, falling backwards and onto his ass on the hard concrete. He doesn’t cry out though; he just holds his head until the dots go away and then –

            He sees him. He scrambles to his feet again and starts to run over to the child until he notices that he’s – stalking. Like a cat. Like a cat on the hunt, Noiz is creeping slowly toward something – a bench. A bench with something on it. Mizuki kind of wants to know what Noiz is doing so he steps toward him quietly, the sounds of screaming children easily covering up the sounds of his beat up shoes on the loose gravel.

            It’s a person. It’s another person on the bench, even smaller than Noiz but when they turn their head – it’s a boy. A younger boy who looks exactly like Noiz. Mizuki’s stomach drops through his feet after a few seconds – a brother. He’s been sitting here feeling like he could be Noiz’s older brother when Noiz was an older brother the whole time. That’s the best guess Mizuki has at least, because the kid is in the same kind of fancy clothes as Noiz was the day they met. He has the same orange hair, the same light freckles, the same green eyes… Mizuki suddenly feels very stupid: he was trying so hard to make Noiz a part of his family that he forgot he doesn’t _have_ a family.

            Noiz does. Noiz _has_ a family.

            Mizuki slinks away toward the twisty slide, ducking underneath the structure to watch as the child looks over and sees Noiz. Mizuki holds his breath, almost like he’s watching a movie as he waits for the reaction.

            His eyes light up. Everything seems to go in slow motion as he launches off the bench and into Noiz’s arms. They’re talking – actually talking. Mizuki can’t hear them or what language they’re speaking, but they’re speaking. They’re having a conversation. Noiz can speak. He just can’t speak Japanese.

            Tears actually come to Mizuki’s eyes – angry tears. Livid, incensed tears, filled with rage and hatred and jealousy. This has all been so ridiculous and Mizuki has been so stupid. Why did he think he could take this kid in? He’s never done something like this before so he’s mostly furious with himself for doing something so imbecilic. He helps _orphans_ , not runaways. He doesn’t know his parents. Koujaku’s are dead. He doesn’t take in rich kids off the street who got separated from their parents and brother and – family. He doesn’t help kids who _have_ a family, that’s the whole point. He’s trying to sew together a family, and this kid already has one.

            He’s stuck in his own head, briefly wondering what Noiz’s real name is – something snotty like Schuylar or Ethan or Todd – when he notices that the younger boy is gone. Noiz stands in the same place, hands dangling at his side and he stares up at two people – parents.

            Mizuki swallows his tongue. He falls to his knees for no apparent reason and starts to bite on his fist just to keep from crying out. Noiz does have parents. His father has the same hair as him and his mother is – Japanese? That must be how he understands Mizuki. He _does_ know Japanese. At least, Mizuki assumes these are his parents because they’ve taken the younger boy and are – walking away?

            They leave Noiz standing at the bench. He’s empty and expressionless and Mizuki is _sure_ they’re just going to go do something and else and then come right back – but if that’s his family – and he’s been missing for almost a week – wouldn’t they care a lot more?

            The younger boy is crying in his father’s arms. Crying and kicking and trying to get away and that’s when Mizuki actually dry heaves.

            They meant to leave him.

            They left him behind. They abandoned him, just like his own parents did to him. They just got rid of him, on purpose, they threw him away. Only they waited until Noiz was six years old and Mizuki can’t figure out if that’s more or less fucked up than orphaning your kid when they’re an infant. Who Mizuki still assumes is his little brother is finally loaded into a car, protesting and screeching the whole time, and as the car drives away, Mizuki feels a bitter pang of guilt.

            He wanted to keep Noiz. A part of him wanted Noiz to be _his_ little brother. And now he’s taken him away from his _real_ little brother. Somehow, Mizuki is positive that this is his fault.

            But he doesn’t have much time for the self-flagellation. When he looks up from his hands – which he’s gratefully only spit up into – Noiz is running again. Mizuki darts out from under the slide and follows him across the street. He tries to scream out to him to be careful in traffic, but a motorbike cuts him off and he doesn’t manage to get a word out. Noiz runs into an alley before Mizuki can get to the other side, and by the time he turns into the alley with him, he already has a set of tiny, bloody knuckles.

            Mizuki knows he should be stopping this. He should be crying out, grabbing Noiz by the arms and preventing him from hurting himself further, but he freezes instead.

            Noiz is screaming, sobbing at the top of his lungs as he punches the brick wall of the arcade next door. He can’t figure out if he’s enraged or heartbroken as his voice rings out in shrill cries of anger and sharp moans of pain. He’s Mizuki six years ago. He’s Mizuki five years ago – he’s Mizuki one _week_ ago, as Mizuki has never truly accepted his lot in life. When he can’t find another street urchin to beat him up, he does it himself. He bangs his fists against the brick walls until they’re bloody and broken and it’s only the memory of the time Tae-san warned him he’d never be able to draw again if he broke it that finally jars him from his memories and reminds him that there’s something more pressing than his own bitter nostalgia.

            He grabs Noiz by the arms and pulls him away without a word; Noiz is startled and tries to escape but Mizuki silently grapples with him to bring him back into the safety of his arms. Noiz decides to punch at Mizuki’s torso instead, and Mizuki lets it happen as they both crumple to the ground, Noiz screaming at the top of his lungs into Mizuki’s t-shirt.

            He’s just a little kid. He still screams like one. Mizuki has no idea how to raise a kid.

            He hugs him tight.

            “Was that your family?” he asks. Noiz stops sobbing for a few seconds. He nods against Mizuki’s chest.

            “Theo.”

            “Theo,” Mizuki repeats. He finally realizes who Theo is. It’s not just Noiz’s bunny. It’s his little brother. “Your little brother?”

            Noiz nods against his shirt again.

            Mizuki sighs painfully. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have a brother. But if it’s anything like how he’s felt about Noiz the past week, he can’t imagine what it’s like to be separated from your blood relations.

            “Do you speak Japanese?” he asks suddenly. He surprises himself with the question but Noiz shrugs. Mizuki puts his hand against Noiz’s head and clasps his hair tightly. He doesn’t fully understand. The way they cradled Theo – the way they rushed him to the car. “Why did they…” He can’t think of a good way to say it. “Why didn’t they leave him behind, too?”

            Noiz whines against his chest Mizuki has to keep his cool right now so he doesn’t let himself think about what kind of terrible people would abandon one child and not the other. Abuse one and not the other. He’s never even heard of that. Terrible people are terrible people, aren’t they? How can they only be terrible to one son? No – how can they be terrible to a son at all? Mizuki has to get the thought of beating them both to a bloody pulp out of his head. He refocuses on Noiz: “So… can I call you Noiz?”

            Noiz pauses for a moment. It seems he’s stopped crying so hard. Now he’s merely sniffling against Mizuki’s shirt. He whines again with a slight nod and he sounds so small and distant that Mizuki can’t argue with him. He nods and runs his fingers through his hair.

            He’s keeping him.

            The decision is made. He’s keeping Noiz. Noiz is _his_ little brother now – and so is Theo. Mizuki swears to himself right then and there that Noiz will see his little brother again. But there are other things to think about first, he supposes.

            “Okay,” he says. “Noiz. It’s nice to meet you, Noiz. I’m Mizuki. Can I take you back to Aoba’s house so that we can get your hand looked at?”

            Noiz shakes his head.

            Mizuki frowns and finally pulls away. He takes Noiz’s hand in his and examines his knuckles. They’re beaten to a pulp and quite frankly, absolutely revolting.

            “You don’t have to play strong with me. I went last night and had his grandma bandage me up. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Doesn’t it hurt?”

            Noiz looks up at him, his eyes big and innocent as always. He shakes his head.

            Then he cuddles back into Mizuki’s chest. Maybe they can sit here for just a little while longer. Mizuki needs some time to recover from the shock, anyway. This morning he woke up an orphan, and now he has two little brothers.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDA5wMxt36Y


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